The Remnants of a Life Once Lived
by Requiem517
Summary: 12 years after the war, and Hermione Granger is in Azkaban. Her reflection on the Final Battle. OneShot. Rated for mention of suicide.


This took me forever to write. I'm not really happy with the ending, and it can be sort of confusing to read, because it keeps flashing from present to past. Eh, oh well.

Standard disclaimer applies.

* * *

Years.

That's how long it had been since Hermione Granger saw sunlight. In reality, it was only twelve, but to the muggleborn it felt like an eternity. In Azkaban, days flowed into weeks, weeks flowed into months, and months flowed into years, causing time to practically become non-existant. There was no day or night, no right or wrong – just memories.

The memories differed from cell to cell. For some, it was murder that haunted their dreams, and for others, it was betrayal or sickness. Far into the night – or day – screams could be heard. They were always present because there was always suffering. Nothing kept the prisoners alive, save for simple mutters into the darkness. Mutters of revenge, and plots to kill. But for Hermione, it was only reflection. Her mind, chipped away by disease and loneliness, could only focus on the last days of her freedom. The Final Battle.

The battle that locked her away.

It had been cold, as December usually was. Grimmauld Place was alive with people, all setting aside their worries in order to get into the holiday spirit. Ron Weasley had made it his personal goal to decorate the house in tinsel and mistletoe. There had been laughter, too. Hermione could remember hearing Harry guffawing at something Remus Lupin said to him. Instead of comforting her, it only made her suffering worse.

"Harry," she had said one night. "Harry, we're going to be okay, aren't we? What I mean is, Voldemort... he won't... destroy us, will he?"

"Hermione, you know I can't answer that. Whatever happens will happen. Can't you just try and enjoy the moment?"

"Of course," she had whispered. "For you, I'd do anything."

And that was the last thing she ever said to him.

"No!" Hermione's raspy voice shouted out into the darkness. "I won't think about it." Her voice became weaker. "I won't..."

There had been fire. Hexes were being thrown, and the only thing running through the mind of the members of the Order was: _how did they know where to find us?_ Grimmauld Place, after all, _was_ unplottable.

"Harry!" Hermione had called out. "Harry where are you?" And then her words were lost, for she was forced to join the fray of bodies. Red was all they could see. Red from the blood that had been spilled – dark and light alike. The smell was overpowering. Decay, rotting flesh, and spilled innards. It was any demon's dream.

"I don't want to think..." Hermione whispered. "Please, no more..." but the memories kept coming.

Fred Weasley had been murdered right before her eyes. His blank face no longer would crack an mischievous smile when something had gone his way, and no longer would his laugh echo throughout the Weasley household. Hermione remembered thinking at the time, what George was doing. It was learned later that he had died only a few minutes after his twin – his missing piece.

"I won't think about this anymore," Hermione ordered herself. "I won't. I refuse..." each day she went through the same routine, and each day she succumbed to her grief.

Smoke was heavy in the air, and the wounded lay writhing in agony upon the ground. Hermione had felt like she was going to be sick as she stepped around her loved ones – Remus Lupin, Tonks, Seamus Finnegan – who had all come to help when they heard that Death Eaters had stormed Grimmauld Place.

"Hermione," one of the bloody corpses whispered. "Hermione... go to... Harry... backyard..." and the brunette remembered not needing to be told twice. She ran towards the kitchen and out of the back door coming face to face with the most terrifying sight in all of her life.

"I don't want to think..." the broken and torn girl sobbed to herself in the corner of her cell. "No... get out of my mind... please!" Her once frizzy brown hair was now matted and tangled to the point of oblivion. Bright eyes became dull and lifeless. Her pale arms were scratched and bloody, due to frantic scratching. Attempts at ridding her mind of the memories.

"Dinner." A harsh voice came from somewhere to Hermione's right, and a small metal bowl was slid from under a flap.

Mustering up her strength, Hermione crawled towards the door, dragging her bruised body along the sharp stones that made up the floor. "Eat, Hermione, atta girl. Eat and forget. Eat and forget." But she couldn't forget. As she slurped down whatever it was they gave her, her mind started to wander.

What once was a beautiful garden full of roses and lily's and tulips was turned into mud and scorn and malice. And there, right in the middle of it all, stood Voldemort and Harry Potter, face to face, wands out, hate pouring from their eyes.

"Harry..." Hermione had started to shout, but the word died on her lips as a bolt of green illuminated the darkness surrounding them.

Voices could be heard outside of the heavy door trapping Hermione in her hell. She couldn't make them out – but she didn't have to. It was the Warden, of course, but no one visited the Warden unless... unless...

unless someone had died.

"Just found her this morning, I'm surprised you made it out so quickly."

"All of my clients are pretty quiet," joked the mortician. "Who was it this time?"

"Ginny Weasley," came the gruff voice of the Warden. "She left a note, too. In the dirt."

"Really?" Cackled the mortician. "What did _this_ one have to say?"

"God will give me justice."

Hermione began to weep. She was alone, now. When she had been taken to Azkaban, the journey was traveled with friends – Ron, Ginny, Dean, Neville, Angelina, Charlie... but they had all passed away. They had all taken their lives. The pain overtook them – it was far too great.

"God will give me justice," repeated Hermione slowly. "Oh, Ginny, why did you have to leave?"

Screams could be heard, but Hermione knew not who they were. Nor did she care. She was forsaken and alone. This time, she didn't fight the memories.

"Mudblood," a cold voice hissed. "Mudblood, I have a present for you. His name is Harry Potter." Hermione remembered standing stock still in the middle of what used to be a rose bed, eyes transfixed on the limp body that Voldemort threw down at her feet. The bloodied body of her best friend. The-Boy-Who-Lived was defeated.

"You... you're sick!" She shouted. "You're vile, and–"

"Crucio."

The pain had been far too great, and Hermione's screams had echoed throughout the night. Remaining Order members came running, but the Death Eaters apprehended them. Christmas Eve – a night for love and family, was proclaimed a day of victory for the dark. Violence and slaughter was the new Santa Clause.

There had been a trial. Lucius Malfoy was the judge, and his cruel grey eyes crept up during the night, glinting with triumph. He was the one to sentence her. "A lifetime imprisonment," he had said.

Forever.

Thats how long Hermione Granger would have to wait to see sunlight again.


End file.
